Sometimes I wonder if we, as souls, choose where we want to be born?
If so, our parents are the obvious first aspect of the choice, but what about the place? I always have been grateful about the place I was raised. It was a small and quiet town, too small that you could walk it across in an hour and so quiet that roosters waked you up in the morning. The place was intimate. People knew each other well, all afternoons they pulled chairs outside their house and sat to enjoy the sunset and watched their kids play soccer at the street as part of the daily ritual of a peaceful life. Violence was an alien concept for the residents, something seen only in television, in a distant reality.